- Meaning?
- Meaning, you stand out no matter what you do. No matter where you are. And whether you want to or not.
It started to sound like a compliment, at least to me.
- Is that a bad thing?
- Not at all. You’re a star, Odette Dufort.
I handed the bottle back to her. Our fingers touched, lingered.
- Come with me, she said.
She took my hand and pulled me away from the darkness. In a blur of bodies and liquor and the powdery scent of stage makeup, we ran like we were late to our marks.
I followed her up a spiral staircase, not entirely unlike the one that twisted up the observatory. This one was older with worn slopes in the center of every step where tap shoes had scraped away the stone.
- Where are you taking me?
- Where you belong! she sang.
And suddenly, we were center stage. She put the bottle down by her feet and wrapped her soft hands on my shoulders, turning me to face the audience.
- How easy it would be for you to get an entire crowd to chant your name, she whispered against my neck.
My entire body trembled. I turned my head, nearly nose to nose with her. Her eyes were a rich brown, almost red. She outstretched her arms to her imaginary audience.
- The applause is what I live for. How can you not chase that when it could so easily be yours?
- In all honesty, I do not crave applause, I said.
I could feel myself about to say something wrong, but I continued.
- Is it bad that I simply don’t care what the masses think of me? I choose whose opinions to take seriously, who actually matters to me. I can’t bring myself to care about any others. I often chase one great “yes,” and the rest is… noise.
She laughed, in a sort of purring manner—throaty and desirous.
- Whose “yes” are you chasing now, Odette Dufort?
- I believe I am chasing yours, Marcherie Andres.
She smiled, almost laughed, and bent down to pick up the bottle. She took a big swig. I reached for it after she was done and found it empty. Noticing, she cupped my chin. Our eyes met. Closer, closer, closer, she came to me. Noses touching. Lips touching. Mouths parting. Warm liquor flooded my mouth, tasting of honey and her.
I never want to drink anything else.
After that kiss, I decided I will not leave. I will join Lamour in these lessons.
And if I die, it will be worth it.
THEPHAEDRUS
Upon graduation, students shall possess such mastery of the arcane that none in the earthly realm may best them, save for their fellow Cygni.
The Book of Cygnus: Graduation 2:1
Claudia is exhausted when she gets to her first rhetorical theory class with Professor Lamour. The nightmare kept her from getting any rest. She’s running on fear and fumes. The room is dull and dark and warm. It smells of cheap tea and dust. Students shuffle to their seats and ready their desks, creating a hum of comforting white noise. The atmosphere begs her to curl up and fall asleep in her wooden chair. Professor Lamour, wrapped in wrinkly red robes, sits at his desk with a bookcracked open in his lap. His hair is black but thinning with age. He’s lanky and thin, with gaunt cheeks and tired brown eyes. Candlelight clings to him and makes him look oily.
All the way across the room sits Cassius, his hair perfectly tousled and his mouth pulled into a sly grin. He always looks as if he’s about to lay down the winning hand in a card game.
